


well, man, it all started when i was born

by rosaecae



Series: Augmented Reality [5]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Mexico, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:32:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10117187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosaecae/pseuds/rosaecae
Summary: When Ian finally makes it to Mexico, he's got an idea about how they can really move on and start over: therapy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so excited for this! i really like analyzing the canon, as fun as AU's can be, but i didn't really want to do it in the typical way of just transcribing scenes and adding introspection (which is great but it's definitely been done). and i'm a firm believer in the importance of talking through your shit with a professional. and if anyone's got a lot of shit to talk through, it's our boys.

Mickey waits a year until Ian finally comes back to him. He gives Ian that year. One year to come back. One year before Mickey finally gives up and pushes Ian to the back of his mind and moves on, tries to really, _really_ start over.

Ian comes back. Some stupid, beautiful little part of Mickey sang that he would, through every painstaking day, and here he was now. Somehow, Mickey had let himself believe, let himself hope, and finally, _finally_ he hasn’t been burned.

He had left his number the same. Just in case. For the year, he told himself. One more year and he’d change it. Fully assimilate.

It was one month to the day he’d last seen Ian when his phone rang.

“I’m ready, Mick.”

_Who the fuck says I’m ready for you?_

That was his jerk reaction. He swallowed it. _This is real_ , he reminded himself. _This is real and this matters. What I say now matters._

Mickey told him where to go. Ian told him to give him a few days to say goodbye.

That sounded final enough to Mickey.

He’s still surprised when Ian shows up a week later.

They don’t say anything, when Mickey opens the door. They look at each other. Really look at each other. Like they haven’t seen each other before. Like they haven’t missed a day.

The Mexico morning glow leaves Ian’s hair looking sandy, and his smile, when it finally comes, is sated.

“Saw the ocean,” is the first thing Ian says. “Wish I’d come to see it sooner.”

It’s an apology. Mickey recognizes it immediately. It’s an apology.

Mickey had told himself that he wouldn’t be easy. That he wouldn’t fall right back in; not right away. That’s what he said, at night when the pounding in his ears got too loud. He had said he’d make Ian work for it. Make him pay, a little bit. Make it hurt for him, too.

Ian’s eyes speak decibels louder than Mickey’s thoughts ever could. He had overlooked that, when Ian left him. He had missed the look in his eyes. His vision had been too blurry to notice. Maybe it looked like this. Calm, but restless. Aching. Regret over things that haven’t happened.

Ian hurts, too. Mickey realizes it, realizes they aren’t one sided. He might hurt differently, but he does. It hurts for him, too.

Maybe it’s time to stop hurting. Maybe it’s really just time to stop the fucking hurting.

They collapse into each other in a quiet hug. It feels like before. It feels nothing like before. Before, Mickey would hug Ian. Mickey would hug Ian when Ian needed it, and Ian would lean into it. Ian’s hugging Mickey, now, too. It’s mutual. Their arms mirrored. Ian squeezes gently, buries his face against Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey feels solid.

He feels alright.

* * *

 

It’s a week later, after the initial wonderment of just _being together_ again slightly wears off, and they’re sitting on the floor while Mickey tries to teach Ian some Spanish, that Ian speaks his mind.

“I really think we should go to therapy, Mick.”

He’d been thinking it for months. When he realized he couldn’t just go on living life without Mickey. With Mickey free, out, there. Everything feeling like a means to an end. An end Ian has denied himself far too many times.

It was two months of pretending that the kiss at the border was the last. Two months of being miserable, of sticking to his routine, of step, step, step monotony.

He passed by the Milkovich house on the first day of February, on the way to the pharmacy. He didn’t need to go that way. That was the long way, really.  

It looked empty. It always kind of did, always kind of looked abandoned and shitty and depressing. But there was always something to indicate life; a shifting litter of cigarette butts, the clamor of raised voices behind the windows. Maybe even a Milkovich perched on the porch, sipping a beer and trying to breathe.

It looked empty. Ian’s chest felt the same way.

Fuck. _Fuck._

He had never let himself miss Mickey like this, like he did right then. There was always that throbbing pulse in his bones, sure, the ache that would have a steady chant if he let it.

_I need you._

But he never let it. No, because if he let it, it would mean everything was real, everything that happened was real, and he was still left without a missing piece. He went through every shot to the heart, every bash to the head and puncture to his lungs, just to emerge empty handed.

Living without Mickey, _really living_ without him, was like living without a limb.

He realized, staring at that desolate apparition of what he once had, of who he once loved, that Chicago was a dead end. Chicago was choking him. His home, his world, it was too small now that he knew what was waiting for him another life and a half away.

He began preparing. Saving more money. Getting a passport. Spending more time with his family. Learning what Spanish he could.

He visited Yevgeny, again. Svetlana was always there, at the Alibi. He kept it quiet; his family would kill him for going to see her, like she was still a friend. Would ask too many questions. Would deduce too much. But he needed to see Yevgeny again. Needed to stop pretending the child didn’t matter, to stop pretending he wasn’t a father, once, in a way. A father with a family. Yevgeny was as much his as he was Mickey’s and Svetlana’s. Ian was a part of that, of Yevgeny’s life. A big part.

His stomach churned at the thought of that first day. That life-cracking day. No, that wasn’t Yevgeny’s fault.

Svetlana agreed. Maybe she knew. She always seemed to know.

He saw Yevgeny a couple times a month, then, up until the end of autumn. Up until he was ready.

Spending time with Yevgeny was when he realized it. That there was a lot left that they hadn’t talked about. A lot left that was there, swimming somewhere in their minds and their bones, but not passing their teeth.

_Gallaghers don’t do therapy._

Bullshit. Ian never fit into the Gallagher status quo, anyway.

“Say that again, in Spanish.”

Mickey’s voice is crystal clear, splitting Ian’s thoughts. That’s changed about him. His voice isn’t murky anymore; he doesn’t sound strained when he speaks. Maybe it’s the salty air. Maybe.

Ian rolls his eyes, huffs out a breath. Ignores the smile Mickey flashes at him. “Creo que...deberíamos ir a la…” he taps his fingers against the wooden floor. “Therapy,” he finally resigns.

“Terapia,” Mickey reminds him, bumping his shoulder lightly with a grin.

“Whatever,” Ian mumbles. Tries not to think about how good it is to see Mickey excited about something. Excited about being bilingual. About sharing that with Ian.

Mickey draws his knees to his chest. “So therapy, huh? You wanna go to a shrink?”

“Yeah. Well, no, not a shrink. A therapist, you know. Not a psychiatrist. Just someone to talk to.”

“‘Bout what?”

Ian shrugs. “Everything. Us. _Toda esa mierda._ ”

Mickey’s resulting smile at the Spanish is satisfying, but there’s something sad and nervous in his eyes. “All that shit, huh?”

“Sí.”

“Hm.”

Settled against the bottom of the couch, the warm feeling of Mickey beside him is grounding.

“There’s a lot of shit we haven’t talked about, Mick,” Ian explains further. Mickey is silent. “I think it would help us. Move on. Start over.” He reaches out tentatively, slots their fingers together. Breathes out when Mickey tightens his grip in acceptance. “ _Junto._ ”

Mickey laughs breathily. “You just gonna throw out Spanish every time you want something like it’s some sorta black magic?”

“It sounds more romantic,” Ian teases.

“Fuck off.”

Ian can’t stop the huge grin that spreads across his face.

Fuck, to be sitting here, safe, warm, optimistic, with the love of his life, with his best friend, the ocean four miles away, in a real home. It feels too good, too delicate, like it could snap any minute. It feels like it was meant for somebody else, somebody that gets good things regularly, that knows what to do with good things without making a mess.

“Alright,” Mickey finally says. “We should do it.”

Ian looks at him, then. Flushed from the Mexico summer. More life in his eyes than the ocean.

Ian loves him. Every inch, every word. Now, right now, he’d do anything to keep him. Anything. He’d walk on water, run until he hit Africa. What was that line from that old movie, the old Christmas one where the leading man ceases to exist for a night? Lasso the moon. He’d lasso the damn moon for Mickey Milkovich.

“Say that again, in Spanish,” Ian says with a teasing grin.

Mickey beams back at him, lets go of his hand to sling an arm around his shoulders, instead. “Deberíamos hacerlo,” he says, with flowing pronunciation. Ian swallows every syllable, leans in to kiss him without hesitation.

“What was that you said? That night in the van, when we talked. What did you say?”

Mickey’s eyebrows draw together. He blinks rapidly, as if surprised.

Ian answers his own question. “You and me. Against the world.”

“You remember that?”

“‘Course I do.”

Mickey smiles minutely. Leans back in to kiss him. His lips glow at the touch; the feeling has never faded. Not once. They still buzz when Mickey pulls away.

“‘Gainst the world.”


	2. Chapter 2

Puerto Peñasco has no shortage of therapists. They choose a cheap one close to home with a straightforward website; no corny bullshit photos, practically just a resumé.

It’s a point of debate when it comes to deciding whether they should go separately or undergo couple’s therapy.

“It’s not you and me that’s the problem,” Mickey argues. “It’s the shit that happened that’s the problem.”

“It’ll be cheaper if we do it together,” Ian counters.. “It’s not like either of us have shit to hide, anyway. It might be good, to yell at each other in a controlled environment.”

Mickey can’t argue with that.

He almost backs out of their first appointment, sudden fear of something so foreign, so against his background of _mouth shut, mouth shut, don’t rock the boat._ But something about the idea of finally saying things, finally thinking about things. Finally moving on, starting over. Like Ian said. Something about that spurs him to trail behind Ian into the office.

The guy is straightforward, fluent in English, with a thin face and thinner hair. He introduces himself as Dr. Valasco, brings them in separately to ask some simple questions. Hobbies, medical history. Some acronym exercise that Mickey can't even finish. Then he invites them both in, asks them to take a seat. They settle on the same couch, and Mickey blinks at the white of the walls as he remembers their last trip to a clinic. To get Ian’s meds. It feels like a decade ago.

“So what are you both hoping to get out of these sessions?” Valasco asks almost immediately.

“Well,” Ian begins when Mickey shoots a glance his way. “We’ve been through...a lot. A lot. And we’ve never really talked about it.”

“And you’d like to do that? To air out some unresolved events in your past.”

“Yeah.”

“We needed a witness,” Mickey adds. “So we won’t go batshit and kill each other.” Valasco laughs. Mickey might not hate him.

“Well, typically we use couple’s therapy to help...rekindle failing relationships,” the doctor explains.

“Oh, no, we don’t need...rekindled,” Ian explains slowly, and Mickey snorts. “Like we said. Just need to ramble about some stuff. You know?”

Valasco squints, and then folds his hands and leans back. “Alright. Why don’t we start from the beginning?”

“Beginning like when I was going to give him a beatdown for trying to rape my sister or beginning like when he threatened me with a tire iron to protect his perv boss?”

“I did not try to rape your sister, Mick,” Ian replies. Valasco sits forward with sudden rapt interest.

“I mean, that’s what she told _me_ \--”

“I did not rape your sister. Oh my god, after all this time do you really still think I--”

“She was pretty fuckin’ upset when she came home.”

“Because I _wouldn’t_ bang her, jesus!”

“And then you dated her. But you didn’t bang?”

Ian throws Mickey an incredulous look. “Mickey, if I was really fucking your sister, that means you were fucking me at the same time that I was fucking your sister. This isn’t a one-way street, here.”

“Wait, so you _didn’t_ bang my sister? Ever?”

“Mick, she was my _beard_.”

Mickey sits back on the couch with this new revelation. “Huh.” All this time, he thought he had genuinely, tried and true, stolen his sister’s boyfriend.

“She didn’t tell you I was gay?” Ian asks.

“No, she said you two made up and were a thing. So she didn’t want us to smash your fuckin’ face in, anymore.” Mickey reaches forward to poke Ian’s cheek with his index finger and laughs when he’s swatted away. “Glad I didn’t ruin it.”

Valasco blinks at them, seemingly shell-shocked. “Where did you two say you were from?”

Ian looks to Mickey, a questioning look in his eye.

It’s been almost a year. His face must be a forgotten one, by now. Who the fuck in Puerto Peñasco would think twice, anyway?

“Chicago,” he informs Valasco.

“And why did you come to Mexico?”

“Fresh start,” Ian supplies. “Needed to get away from all that shit.” Mickey nods his agreement.

“Understandable.” Valasco shuffles the papers in his lap, settling in. “So, we’ve cleared up that you, in fact, did _not_ rape your partner’s sister. Why don’t we push forward a little bit? To when you both think you first were together.”

“That would be the tire iron,” Mickey supplies.

“Would it?” Valasco prompts with interest.

“Yeah,” Mickey confirms. “I--”

“Hold on,” Valasco stops him. “Why don’t you tell the story to Ian?”

Mickey gives him a look. “Why the fuck would I do that? He was there.”

“Yes, but these sessions are about saying things left unsaid, yes? Learning to better communicate emotions? So tell the story to Ian. Tell him how you were feeling. I’ll have him do the same thing.”

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes out, glancing in Ian’s direction. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, reminds himself that he _wants_ to move on, _wants_ to air shit out. Wants to be better for Ian, wants Ian to be better for him. “Alright.”

* * *

I was stealing from the Kash ‘N Grab. That convenience store you worked in. It was like a month, right? A month where Towelhead just let me come in and take shit. I kept hitting there because it was easy. Because he was already scared enough. I wouldn’t have to hurt anybody, right? I already felt shitty enough that I had to steal to feed myself. Mandy. Fuck, I had to walk in there and just take shit just so we could fucking eat. That’s why I was doing it. This is about honesty, right? It wasn’t a power play, it wasn’t a fucking display of dominance, it was just the easiest fucking way to have some sort of meal. My dad was still in prison, then, and my brothers were useless. I had to take care of her. Of me and Mandy. She was my fucking little sister, man, and sometimes she would sleep with guys just to get a meal out of it. Did you know that? I did. I had to know that. I really fucking wish I didn’t have to know that.

_He avoids Ian’s eye. He probably did know that._

Anyway, I was stealing from your store. And I would try to go when you weren’t there, because honestly? Honestly, you fucking...well, you terrified me. _He slaps Ian’s arm to shake his smug look._ Not in the intimidating way, man. But you were always over at my fucking house, or Mandy was always over at your house, I saw you a lot. I... _liked_ seeing you, and that made me fucking sick. You made her happy. She was smiling so much. I don’t think you know. She really loved you, like really, really loved you, and I was curious. No one had ever made her smile that much. Whenever you were over she was laughing and grinning and sometimes I’d stick around in the same room just to find out what the fuck all the fuss was about. You remember that? You were this gangly fucking kid that made my sister smile like you hung the fucking moon. I started to get it. Before we were even a thing. When I stuck around while you guys hung out, I started to get it. So I avoided you at the store, tried to go when I knew you weren’t there. That was right around when I dropped out. I really, really fucking didn’t want to drop out. No one would have guessed that shit, huh? A Milkovich that _wanted_ to finish high school. I had to, though. I had to learn how to run shit for my dad. I was the smart one. I was fucking good at math, though. Even the higher shit, even calculus. I never had to ask your fucking brother for help in math. It all made sense. I could have done something with myself, I guess. Being good at math’s a big deal, right?

This ain’t a pity party.

Where was I? Right, I’d go during the day, when I knew you were at school. I knew you knew I was swiping from the store, but I didn’t want you to _see_ it. I have no fucking idea why. You always acted like we were good when I was around, even though you knew. Maybe Mandy put in a good word. Explained why I had to do it. Fuck, I guess I wanted you to like me. I never cared, before. I never cared what people thought, before you. Fuck you, man, caring was hard. Is hard.

You were there, one day, when I took some shit. I didn’t realize you were there. You stared me down while I left and I just had to keep walking. I fucking hated that look. You finally saw it; I knew that’s the look I would get if you ever saw. I had some dumb hope that maybe you’d get it, because you were dirt fucking poor, too. That maybe you’d get that I was doing it because I had to.

I still remember what you said, right? “Steal from a neighborhood you don’t live in, have some civic pride.” I would have laughed my ass off, if you said it to anyone else. You were brave. You weren’t afraid of me. Or maybe, you were, I don’t know, but you still stood up to me. I think that was it for me. You and your fucking brother, you both were brave enough to mouth off to me. Only difference was, I knew your brother was an asshole. But, you? I thought you were too good for all this shit. Fuck, I knew you were. I think I was torn between really, really wanting you to be afraid of me and just kind of wanting to be your...friend. Fuck, that’s pathetic, right? Really sad.

I think I was hitting on you. _He laughs._ Really, I think that’s what my fucking subconscious was doing when I told you to come to my house if you had a problem. Maybe I didn’t really realize it at the time.

Should I pick up the pace? I should pick up the pace.

Kash pulled a gun on me when I came in for a six pack and some aspirin. That was the day I picked up my dad from prison, after he'd been gone for, like, two years. My brothers had all conveniently fucking disappeared, I wasn’t going to let Mandy do it. By the time you came around, he was already on a bender. That’s how it always went, he’d come home from prison, act really happy to see us for about 24 hours while he drank himself to sleep. Then he’d wake up a day or two later and rail on whichever one of us was around.

I guess that’s why I let it happen. I knew he was probably too blasted to stand, let alone hear us fucking.

_‘I’m sorry, how was that initiated?’_

_Mickey laughs._

You waltzed right into my house with a fucking blunt weapon and woke me up. You had balls, man. I think--fuck, I think I fell in love with you right then. I can say that now, right? I think I fell in love with you when you threatened me with that thing. _Ian laughs, Mickey grins._ I did. Yeah. It was intense, I thought it was just rage. They’re similar, right? Love and anger? Not really good, not really bad. They both fucking hurt.

Fuck.

We fought. And I mean _we_ fought, because you fought back. I was in love with you then, yeah. I couldn’t pinpoint the feeling. I didn’t know what it felt like. I should have known, now that I look back.

_‘Hindsight bias,’ Valasco comments._

Yeah, sure. But he slammed me against the wall and it felt like a goddamn kiss on the cheek, I think. I swear to God. That tire iron melted from my hand so fast, man. I wasn’t ever really gonna hurt you too bad. I think I knew that. You didn’t know that. Maybe you thought you did when you first came in, but the way you were bracing yourself, I think you really thought I was gonna brain you right there. Fuck--I didn’t like you being scared of me. I didn’t like that look on your face, the look that said that I was just proving everyone right. That’s when I realized it. I didn’t want you to see me like everyone else saw me.

I think I found fucking...fucking religion when I let you fuck me. _God,_ that sounds so fucking cheesy. Really, though. I knew what I was. I had just never let myself _know_ what I was. You get me? You showed me what I was. How good it was to be _what I was_. It left me shaking. I was scared shitless, even before my dad walked in. I really wasn’t gonna be able to live without it, anymore.

Valasco, I’m telling you, it really was some porn shit. Fighting to fucking, no words, just blink of a fucking eye and we’re stripping. We’re not making it up.

_Valasco's eyebrows shoot up._

I mean, after my dad almost figured us out, when he walked through the room when we were still bare ass naked in bed, I decided that it wouldn’t happen again. Couldn’t. I had this whole plan: never see you again, live a few more years trying to learn to like girls, then knock somebody up and marry her. That’s partly why I gave you back the gun. Get you out of my hair, find a new store to terrorize. Problem solved, right? I think I forgot you were Mandy’s boyfriend.

You came back around like two days later, still had that bruise on your fucking eye. Everything I choked down came right back around to piledrive me. The memory I was trying to pretend didn’t happen. You looked at me when I walked through the room. Just looked at me. No one had ever looked at me, really. I mean they’d looked at me, but not that way. You were in my fucking...ribcage, then. _He motions to his torso._ Right around here. Lodged right the fuck in there. I hated you, man. I hated you and I needed you. There was no lying to myself about it, after I saw you again. The way my whole body burned. My chest was hammering, dude, I felt like I was gonna faint. Pass the fuck out, in front of you. Because you were looking at me. You stupid, freckled asshole. Why’d you have to look at me again?

_Ian opens his mouth to say something, Mickey waves him off._

Save it. When I came around to the store again, I thought for fucking sure you were gonna tell me to fuck off. I mean, fuck. _You?_ Wanting _me?_ I took the deepest fucking breath before walking in there. I don’t fucking remember what I said. Some stupid shit, right? I’m great at saying stupid shit.

_Ian grins. ‘Got any Slim-Jims in this shithole?’ Mickey barks out a laugh._

Did I really say that? Fuck, it feels like so long ago. I mean it was, right? Like seven years? We were kids. We were _kids._ I was sixteen, Valasco. About to turn seventeen. He was fifteen. _Fuck_ we really were kids. We grew up together, huh? That’s why...that’s why it’s just us. You and me, right? We grew up together. I didn’t even notice.

_‘We were on the same baseball team.’_

Fuck. Yeah. I forgot. We were. When we were like fucking...nine? Ten? Shit. We went to the same goddamn elementary school.

_‘You never bullied me. You bullied other scrawny kids.’_

No. I didn’t. You were poor, man. All your clothes were hand-me-downs. I could tell. I was a little brother, too. All my fucking clothes were my brothers’. I wasn’t gonna hassle another poor kid for money. That’s like asking a dyslexic for English tutoring.

_Mickey pauses. Thinks. It’s quiet. Both Valasco and Ian watch him._

I think--I think I really noticed that I was feeling shit towards you when you came to me that one day. You know, the day your boss found us? I couldn’t say no to you. You looked terrified. My heart was fucking breaking. I was torn between offering to kill whoever did it and shutting the door in your face so I could maybe stop--feeling that way. _Feeling_ . I was feeling a whole lot of shit. I loved...you. I realized it then. I couldn’t say no. I even came back after he found us. I had--I had to fucking come back and rub it in his face. After I figured it out. That for once, I’d beat somebody to something. In a way. I’d fucking won. You didn’t want him, anymore. I knew he wouldn’t say shit. I was never fucking scared of him. I ran, when he found us, sure, jerk reaction. But I came back. You wanting me over him made me fucking--cocky. You know what I said to him? You didn’t hear us, huh. I was such a little shit. I can’t even really remember what I said. _Something_ about you and me to piss him off. Something about me stealing you. I stole you from a lot of fucking people, huh? Mandy, Towelhead...Kudos to me.

And you...You would always fucking smile at me. I hated that. I would say shit that would get most people’s panties in a fucking twist, but you’d just smile. It was so fucking frustrating. I was scared of you. I was so fucking scared of you. When Kash shot me, and you ran to me, fuck, you chose me. I mean, I had a bullet in my leg, I couldn’t really think about anything else, but I played that back maybe a thousand times when I went inside. That look in your eye. Like you’d care if I died. Like you cared that I was hurt. When you visited me, in juvie? And you just kept fucking smiling? That...fuck, Ian, that kept me going. You smiling like that. At me. At fucking _me_ of all people. Why the fuck did you smile so much? God. I loved you. I didn’t know it, how much I really did already. After maybe a month of just fucking? Month and a half? When you smiled like that I knew I could never leave. Knew I’d come back to you the second I got out. Fuck you, man. Why the fuck did you smile so goddamn much?

* * *

He ends it with a muted crinkle to his eyes, echoing his point, taking the bite away from the words.

Valasco clears his throat, mouth twitching up into a smirk. “That was good, Mickey. That was a good start. Very honest.”

Mickey shrugs. “I tried.”

“It was good. I am curious to hear your side, Ian.”

Ian is smiling at him, like a smitten idiot, like he’s fifteen again. He doesn’t really know what to do with this influx of information, this new light shed on their earliest times; their simplest times. He feels naive, again. He feels innocent. Like he’s been transported back to his young mind, when he was so blatantly, openly infatuated. In love. He doesn’t know how people didn’t know.

“Ian?”

He blinks. “Oh. Right. Uh.” He wonders what he could possibly say, now.

Valasco senses his hesitation. “Why don’t you start where Mickey did? When he started stealing from the store?”

Ian scratches at the back of his head, trying to find a point to begin. “Okay. Yeah.”

* * *

Yeah. You were right, Mick, Mandy did talk about you. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was bad. The bad was only when you did something to piss her off, though. We would talk a lot, when it was dark and we were both tired. She told me that you were more than, you know, you seemed. I don’t know why I was so interested. I mean, I didn’t ask her about you, but whenever she brought you up I wouldn’t change the subject. You were just so... _interesting_. Really, you were. I couldn’t figure you out. Of course, I’ve always been bad at figuring things out when it comes to people. Like Kash. Kash, I really thought he loved me. Really, I did. I was dumb...I still wonder if he did. If maybe I wasn’t...

_‘And how old was Kash?’_

_‘Old enough to be a fuckin’ pedophile,’ Mickey answers for him._

Yeah. Old enough. I really...I really, really thought he loved me. I thought, you know, age is just a number. I thought it was real. Wasn’t it, though? Everything with him felt real, you know? Well, in the moment. And then…

I won’t get ahead of myself.

I got why you stole from us. Kash...yeah, he was a pussy. About everything. He wasn’t made for the Southside, I don’t really think. And you never did it while I was there, you never hurt anybody. I couldn’t really do shit.

I couldn’t figure you out, Mick. You would steal from Kash and then you’d hang out with me and Mandy like nothing was even happening. Maybe I didn’t say anything, because I saw how you lived, how it was even _worse_ than my family. At least we had Fiona. You guys didn’t have anybody but yourselves. Each other. I got it. Maybe, deep down, I didn’t really want you to stop. I cared about Mandy, too. I didn’t want her to do awful shit just to eat. Which, yes, I did know about.

I think I just wanted Kash to  _do something_. So I wouldn't have to. So it would be his fault. Maybe to prove that he wasn't the pussy that I was starting to think he was. You...I think I was realizing that you were my speed. More than Kash was.

You were funny, when you’d hang out with us. I swear nobody ever made me laugh as hard as you did. You _are_ funny, Mick. You are. And I did like you, a lot. You made me smile, just as much as Mandy did. That make you feel validated? _Mickey smiles bashfully, rolls his eyes._ What? You’re likable, believe it or not. You are. I couldn’t keep up with you, I felt tongue-tied half the time. I still don’t know how words just fucking fit together so quickly in your brain. It’s amazing. You were the smartest person I’d ever met. Fuck my brother, it’s true, you were. Uneducated, whatever, you’re still the smartest person I know.

_‘Shut the fuck up.’_

No. Anyway, I liked you so much. That’s why it hurt pretty bad when you took the gun from Kash. I understood, but I’d settled so far into this little bubble of separating the person that stole from the store from _you,_ it was like a punch to the stomach. I don’t know if it was about Kash at that point. Maybe it still was, I don’t know. Everything about Kash is so fuzzy. It feels like it happened to somebody else. It feels like--

Huh. It feels like life before we were together? Feels like it wasn’t...real. You’ve always been there, right? It just feels that way. I can’t really remember what it’s like to not have you around.

I wasn’t even really scared walking into your room to get it back. I mean, I _was,_ but not as scared as I should have been. You weren’t really _scary_ to me. You were _Mickey_ , right? Mandy’s snarky brother. I had--I had the biggest crush on you. It was obvious, right? It had to be obvious. I feel so stupid admitting that. Is my face turning red?

_‘Like a tomato.’_

Fuck. Whatever. I didn’t think it would ever happen. Gay-basher secretly harboring his own gayness? Doesn’t happen in real life, I thought. So I didn’t really think about it.

You’re right, though. I really thought you were going to kill me. I really thought, _this is where it ends, dying by the hand of a half-awake Mickey Milkovich._

_Mickey laughs. ‘Half-awake and still beat your ass.’_

Shut up. Did I interrupt you? Shut up.

I honest to God thought I was in some weird fucking wet dream when it happened. I mean, Valasco, I’ll spare you the details--

_‘I think I understand quite well, thank you.’_

Right. Yeah. _Fuck._ That was when things stopped feeling real with Kash. I thought back, realized things never did feel real. They didn’t--I mean. Nothing about it was tangible. Nothing was vivid. I can remember every moment with you, Mick. You throw me a line, I could probably paint a picture of it. Kash? It was all really muted. Felt like I was watching a movie in black and white, or something. I was lucky his wife found us out right before. I couldn’t have fucked him after that. I couldn’t have--

_‘Ian, why don’t you talk about your home life a little bit?’_

My home life? Like, my family?

_‘You have siblings?’_

Yeah. A lot. Five. Two sisters and three brothers.

_‘And how did they treat you?’_

We were a pack. They treated me fine. My brother was my best friend. Lip.

_‘Did you have friends outside of your family?’_

Why would you ask that?

_‘Did you?’_

Until Mandy? Not really.

_‘They fuckin’ ignored him,’ Mickey cuts in._

They did not, Mick. They didn’t-- I needed less attention than everyone else. I wasn’t a little kid, I didn’t need attention. I didn’t...I could take care of myself. I had Lip. Lip didn’t ignore me. Lip...alright, he acted like he was better. I guess. He didn’t ignore me, though. I was the middle kid, you know? I did my own thing, a lot. I wasn’t a bad kid. Or a genius. Or a little girl. I...did my own thing.

_‘What was ‘your own thing’?’_

Junior ROTC? Like, military training. I worked hard on school. And the store, I was the only cashier there. I helped my brother with his business. Taking SATs for kids who wanted good scores.

_‘So the extent of your social interaction was your family, who left you alone, your boss, who you were engaging in sexual activity with, and your school, where you had no friends besides your brother?’_

I--okay, yeah. Alright. I see your point. I see what you’re saying. Maybe--maybe I liked the attention Kash gave me. He made me feel...what’s the word? Idealized. Special. Worth taking a risk on. The secret felt sexy? I guess. He made me feel like…

_‘It seems like he objectified you quite a lot.’_

What? No, he...That makes it sound like he was taking advantage of me.

_‘Wasn’t he, though?’_

He never raped me. It was consensual.

_‘He was your boss, Ian,’ Mickey provides. ‘He coulda fired you if you stopped.’_

I...guess so. I guess I was afraid of that, yeah. It felt real, though. It didn’t feel like I was forcing myself to do anything. He made me feel special. I liked that attention. It was my choice. I liked it.

He never...raped me.

_‘He built you up, gave you attention, but made you feel as though you could not leave?’_

I don’t think he did it on purpose. He wasn’t devious. I don’t think he was smart enough to think that shit through.

_‘You were fifteen.’_

I was fifteen. I--I was, yeah. I felt like I was an adult, though. I felt like I was, until...you. You made me feel like a teenager again. That’s how you made me feel. It was good. That’s not how Kash made me feel. He treated me like we were the same age.

_‘Do you think that’s right?’_

I don’t know. I don’t know. I didn’t think about it until he brought me to his house. I saw his life. He had a wife and kids. Like, real kids, that I knew. A wife that I knew. I didn’t know what I was doing until then. I was like...a homewrecker, from the start. I should have known.

_‘Ian, you were a kid.’_

I was a kid. I wasn’t dumb, though. I knew. I did.

_‘You were lonely.’_

Yeah. I was always lonely. That’s how I always felt. Kind of different. I was lonely. Sure, isn’t everyone lonely? Weren’t you lonely, Mick?

_‘Until you.’_

Yeah. Until you, too.

We were both lonely. That’s why we work, right? That’s the bottom of it? We were the same kind of lonely? We both didn’t really know how to talk. That’s the loneliest thing of all. Not knowing how to...say things. I mean, I could _talk_. I was alright at small talk. Kind of quiet, right? You remember, back before...yeah. Quiet kid. You were quiet, too, though. It worked. It worked alright. I could talk enough. You learned how to say things, though. Like, the important things, Mick, you learned how. That’s really great. I don’t think I learned how. Or maybe--maybe I knew, and I learned it’s easier not to say those things. I mean, I told you I missed you, when I came to visit you in juvie that first time. You remember that? I was nervous as hell to say that, but it was true, and I said it. You were so...I had such a big fucking crush on you, Mick. It’s embarrassing, honestly, I can’t believe I acted that way around you back then. Can you believe that? I wish I was still that brave, now that everything’s a little better. I wanna...well, maybe not act like a fifteen year old with a crush, but...I wanna say things like that again. I do. I’m sorry I don’t. It’s hard. You get that. I’m sorry.

* * *

Mickey blinks at him, his mouth twitching into a crooked smile. Ian smiles back. It feels easy. Light. Mickey wonders what the catch is.

“Well,” Valasco says, popping the moment. “I’d like to try something, before our hour is up. I want you both to look at each other and say something you wish you had said to the other back then. Take a minute to think.”

* * *

Mickey chews his lip. Tries to take himself back to his sixteen year old self. It isn’t hard, really. Terrified. Just always so scared. Maybe good at hiding it, maybe not. Maybe not. Nobody looked at him long enough to see it.

And then Ian; this pretty kid with sparkling eyes that gazed at him like he was something really, really good. Sincerely. Like there’s was a love story worth writing down, even then. Even when they were two immovable objects.

Mickey thinks back to those words Ian had stuttered, that in turn had made his heart, embarrassingly, skip a few beats.

That’s it.

* * *

Ian gazes at the floor, flutters his fingers in thought.

“I missed you, too,” Mickey says. “In Juvie.”

Ian opens his mouth, then closes it. “Fuck.”

“Is it hard?” Valasco asks.

Ian looks to Mickey, who quirks a familiar smile at him. “Yeah. It’s hard.”

“You’re safe here, Ian,” Valasco reminds him. “Whatever you say, you’re safe.”

“I’m not scared,” Ian says weakly. He catches Mickey’s eye. Needs him to know he’s not scared. Not of him, not anymore. “I’m not scared. Words just...they catch, right around here.” He motions to his throat. “It’s embarrassing, too.”

“Hey, man. We’re in fuckin’ _therapy_.” Mickey nudges Ian’s knee. “‘S alright.”

Ian takes a steadying breath. And it is hard. It is. Frustrating. The words, always on the tip of his tongue, always right there, never spilling over. Quiet. He was a quiet kid. He’s a quiet adult, now.

"I smiled so much," he pauses, readjusts, tries again. "I think, because you were everything I didn't know...I didn't know I wanted."

* * *

The walk home is quiet. That was never a problem before, it isn’t a problem now.

They’re in love. Ian realizes it starkly when Mickey smiles at him gently, waiting at a crosswalk for the flow of traffic to slow. They really are. There’s no misunderstanding anymore. There’s no wondering. Nothing vague, really. Straightforward, irrevocably. They’re in love.

“You work tonight?” Ian asks finally, while he waits for Mickey to unlock his apartment door.

“Nah. Tomorrow.” The key gives, and the door swings open slowly.

“Free night, huh?” Ian grins at Mickey as he steps inside.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey says as he swings the door shut and pulls Ian by the wrist to meet his lips roughly.

And _God,_ his hands shake. They’re in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh so i have extensive experience with therapy (of course not couples therapy lmao) so i'm just writing from my own experiences.  
> thoughts always welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my quarter is finally over so i can finally write again without feeling intense guilt hooray

“Why the  _ fuck  _ does everything have to be in Spanish?” Ian complains as they traverse the fruit section of the supermarket. 

“We’re--Ian, we live in Mexico,” Mickey responds with a small laugh. He reaches for a bunch of bananas, drops it in the cart. “Can you really not identify a banana without verbal aid?”

“One of the words for banana in Spanish  _ is  _ banana,” Ian argues. “Bad example.” 

“Fuckin’--Gallagher, the best way to learn Spanish is to be immersed in it,” Mickey tells him, pushing the cart forward a few feet as Ian glances over the apples.  _ Manzanas,  _ he tries to correct himself. “If you wanna be an EMT again you’re gonna have to learn it.”

“Maybe I could just be a dancer again,” Ian half-jokes. “Don’t need Spanish for that, right?” He can tell he’s said something wrong by the way Mickey instantly tenses.

Mickey stares down at the crate of pears beside them absently. “Don’t…” he warns softly.

“Sorry,” Ian quickly, quietly apologizes. “Bad joke. Sorry.”

Mickey looks to his eyes, and a bit of the tension in his disposition seems to uncoil. A lopsided smile twitches onto his lips. “You’ll learn Spanish,” he says, rock solid, and Ian releases a figurative breath with the shift back to a light tone. “And you’ll become the best goddamn EMT this stretch of the west coast has ever seen.”

“D’you need Spanish for the garage?” Ian asks, trying to find any chink to expand his argument against working at the language.

“Yes, I need Spanish. Gringo tourists don’t exactly bring their busted transmissions around for the local experience.” Mickey grabs up an onion ( _ cebolla _ , Ian thinks) and inspects it. “‘Hey, honey, while we’re on this beautiful Mexican getaway, why don’t we go get the rental’s oil changed?’” he continues in a mockingly excited voice, and Ian can’t help but grin.

_ Fuck,  _ he had missed Mickey.

“You’re an asshole,” Ian says through his smile.

“‘Least I can speak Spanish,” Mickey answers with raised eyebrows as he fills a plastic bag with tomatoes.  _ Tomates.  _

“It’s not that I can’t,” Ian argues. “It’s just fucking hard.”

“It’s easier than English, dude. The grammar makes more sense.”

“I was great in English. I tested out,” Ian informs him.

“Doesn’t really help you in Puerto fuckin’ Peñasco, though,” Mickey points out dismissively. Ian huffs out a breath and pretends to ignore his boyfriend in favor of directing his rapt attention toward bright green bunches of cilantro. Mickey sighs. “Why don’t you take the cart up so they can start scanning shit and I’ll run and get the milk?”

Ian blinks at him. “Wh--no, that would mean I have to  _ talk  _ to the cashier.”

Mickey gives him a look that seems to say,  _ Yeah, and?  _

“In  _ Spanish,  _ Mick,” Ian elaborates. 

“So?”

“So, I can’t.”

“Ian, you and I have full conversations in Spanish every fucking day. You’ll be fine,” Mickey tells him.

“No, Mickey, they talk too fast. You don’t talk too fast.”

“I talk just as fast as they do, you’re just not scared of fucking up around me,” Mickey answers. 

“Come on, Mick, I can’t.”

“Ian, if  _ I _ can live here  _ alone _ for a fucking year and come out fluent, you can talk to the goddamn cashier. He’s just gonna ask you how you are. He’s not gonna make you recite the fucking Gettysburg Address.”

Ian knows that Mickey’s won this argument, that he’s acting irrational, that he has been completely capable of having a small,  _ Spanish I _ worthy conversation with a cashier since  _ long  _ before he actually came to Mexico, but he’s still terrified. 

Maybe because he just doesn’t feel settled here, yet. Friday will mark one month living in Mexico, and Ian’s happy, but it isn’t home. Well, it is, somewhat; Mickey’s there, so Ian knows it will be home soon enough. But Puerto Peñasco itself just doesn’t feel like  _ home  _ yet. 

Mickey loves the place. Ian can tell that much, even if Mickey doesn’t say it. He speaks the language beautifully, a far cry from the choppy obscenities he had demonstrated on their first trip to the border. He’s always interested in going out and trying new things in the city, a stark contrast from when they had lived together in Chicago. He talks, too, so freely and comfortably, and he smiles so much Ian wonders if he just imagines it half the time. But no, no, it’s not a trick of the light, Mickey really just seems happy.

The thought is what spurs Ian to consent, however begrudgingly. 

The way Mickey grins at him gives him the sturdiness to walk to the cash register and start unloading the cart.

“¡Hola!” the cashier, a young guy with tousled hair and scruffy dimples, greets.

Ian nods at him. “¡Buenos días!” 

“¿Cómo estás?” the cashier asks brightly as he punches in the produce.

“Fantástico,” Ian tells him as he reaches back and digs in his pocket for his wallet.

“El clima es hermoso hoy,” the cashier comments, and Ian’s eyes flick to the tall window to his right. The sky  _ is  _ exceptionally blue today, he has to admit.

“Cada día es...hermoso comparado con mi...ciudad vieja,” Ian replies, fighting the pink tinge of his cheeks that he feels surge when he has to pause. Maybe it’s small talk, but something deep down inside of Ian  _ is  _ missing the cold Chicago weather. It’s December, but it feels like the dead center of July.

“¿De dónde es usted?” the cashier asks.

“Chicago,” Ian answers as he unfolds his wallet and flicks through a few pesos. 

“En América?”

“Sí.”

The cashier’s smile widens, and his scanning slows. “¿Viva en Puerto Peñasco ahora?”

Ian raises an eyebrow at the cashier’s newfound curiosity. Tells himself to stop being so suspicious, to try to let go of the Southside mentality. People are nicer around here, he reminds himself. 

“Sí,” he repeats. “He estado aquí por un mes.”

_ Mickey, where the fuck are you? _

Ian instantly regrets informing the cashier of his newness to the city when the man grabs for a paper and pencil and starts to scratch down digits.

“Si necesita a alguien para mostrarle la ciudad,” the cashier is rushing out breathily as Ian panics to find any way to let him down easily, “puedes llamar y nosotros--”

“Why don’t you back the fuck off?”

Ian thinks he’s never been simultaneously more glad and more terrified to hear that voice.

The cashier freezes on the last digit, head swiveling in tandem with Ian’s to find Mickey, clutching a gallon of milk with murderous intent.

“¡Disculpe! Solo estaba siendo ama--”

“Yeah, well, where we come from, that ain’t just bein’ nice,” Mickey interrupts, placing the milk on the counter forcefully. 

The cashier turns to Ian with an expression that suggests he believes Ian gives a shit about him. “¿Le explicaría a su maleducado amigo que yo estaba siendo amable?”

“Do you really think I can’t understand you?” Mickey asks incredulously. 

Ian braces himself. It’s all he can do.

He’s not actually able to comprehend most of the cascade of rapid Spanish that Mickey produces then, but what he  _ does  _ understand is the look of pure fear and shock on the cashier’s face. Ian realizes that the guy must have thought that his slow, tentative Spanish was endearing. Somehow, that thought makes the barrage of angry syllables being thrown the cashier’s way much more satisfying. 

Ian allows Mickey approximately 10 uninhibited seconds before he’s speaking over him, loudly, to ask for the total, shoving the pesos at the wide-eyed cashier and gathering up their grocery bags. He gives the cashier one more smile as he heads towards the exit, not bothering to glance back. He knows Mickey will follow, milk in hand, once he puts a cap on his last sentence, which Ian thinks may have had the words ‘boyfriend’ and ‘chop’ and ‘dick’ thrown into the mix. 

“So, did learning Spanish turn you into a drama queen, or did I just never notice it before?” Ian asks once Mickey catches up to him outside and relieves him of a few bags.

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, definitely just didn’t notice. Fuck, remember when you beat the shit out of that Asian kid from ROTC that I was banging while you were in juvie?” Ian chuckles, and Mickey remains flatly unamused. 

“Deserved it,” Mickey mumbles. “Got in the fuckin’...line of fire, or whatever. Lucky I didn’t snap his fuckin’ neck.”

“Are we talking about the Wong kid or the cashier right now?”

“Yes.”

Ian laughs. “You can’t threaten every guy who talks to me.”

“He was writing out his phone number, it wasn’t a conversation about the goddamn weather.”

Ian decides not to correct him and explain that, actually, that’s exactly what it was. “Maybe people are just friendlier around here,” Ian reasons as they climb the stairs to Mickey’s apartment. 

“No, no, don’t try to pull that with me. Just because we aren’t in that shithole ghetto anymore don’t mean everyone ain’t just as underhanded and fucking self-involved. He did not just want to make a new best friend.” Mickey unlocks the door and strides in, discarding his half of the groceries on the table and heading to the fridge to grab a beer.

Ian tries to stifle another laugh as he sets down the bags lightly. “ _ Fuck,  _ Mick, I really missed you.” 

Mickey takes a sip of his beer, watching him, a calculating expression on his face. “Yeah?” he finally produces.

“Yeah. Life felt kinda fake without you around, y’know?”

Mickey seems to hesitate before smiling sheepishly. “ _ God,  _ you’re fuckin’ gay sometimes.”

Ian grins, stepping forward and cupping Mickey’s face in his hands. He presses a soft kiss to Mickey lips, and Mickey reluctantly softens.

“Te amo,” Ian mumbles into their kiss, in a half-teasing manner.

“Chingate,” Mickey mutters back. “I hate you.”

* * *

 

“So, Mickey, do you consider yourself a jealous person?” Valasco asks after they recount the events of the morning.

“No.”

Ian snorts. “Are you--”

Valasco holds up a hand. “Remember our rule, Ian. We let each other speak.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but keeps his mouth shut.

“So, maybe there is a better word for it, yes? Possessive?” Valasco continues.

“I--I’m not some jealous bitch, man,” Mickey refutes. 

Valasco’s fingers tap soundly against the arm of his chair. “Would you say you’re protective of what’s yours?”

Mickey’s eyebrows draw together, and he shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, who isn’t?”

“And you feel angry when anyone threatens to take away what’s yours?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Can you think of any other times when you’ve felt that way? Besides this morning?”

Mickey blinks. “About Ian?”

Valasco cocks his head noncommittally. “About anything. Doesn’t have to be Ian.” 

Mickey squints at him. “I don’t--fuck, this is gonna sound so stupid.”

Valasco smiles. “We all sound stupid in therapy.” 

“Fair point. ‘S gonna involve my goddamn dad, though.”

Valasco takes a deep breath. “Doesn’t it always?”

* * *

 

Yeah. Alright, I’m possessive. Protective. Whatever the fuck. Valasco, I don’t know much about your childhood, but if you had to take half the bullshit I kept quiet about for nineteen goddamn years…

_ ‘He was abusive, I take it?’ _

Believe me when I say this: if Satan somehow became human in some sort of blasphemous Jesus fashion, the result would be my dad. 

It feels good to say that. It does. I always had some sort of weird sense of loyalty to him; I mean fuck, at least he kept us fed, right? He kept money flowing, even if he used half of it to get fucking obliterated. 

He hated me the most. Probably Mandy the second most, but me, definitely me the most. Mandy and me looked like mom. Our brothers didn’t.  _ God,  _ he hated me. Sometimes he’d get mad at one of my brothers, but if he didn’t want to hit them for whatever reason, he’d take it out on me. Really. And--fuck, it didn’t stop at physical, either. He always wanted to catch me on shit, make me look fuckin’ stupid. Nothing...was ever fucking good enough for him. You know, I think the first time…

_ He clears his throat. Ian watches him carefully. _

I think the first time that I felt like he was fucking  _ proud  _ was when he held Yevgeny. 

_ ‘Yevgeny?’ _

Yeah, my...our kid. Our kid. Fuck, there’s so much you don’t know, huh? I really...I’m not ready to talk about that shit.

_ ‘That’s alright.’ _

_ Ian reaches over, places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. _

Anyway, he wouldn’t fucking let us  _ have  _ anything. Like we had shit, material shit, hardly, but it was never fucking ours. We didn’t have fucking...hobbies. You express interest in anything that my dad didn’t think was useful, and that interest would be gone the second he found out. 

_ ‘Did you have interest? In anything?’ _

Fucking of course. Everyone does, right? I liked to draw, man. I wasn’t good, probably, but I’d draw shit on notebook paper during class and if I liked it I’d tape it to my wall. And, of course, I liked weapons and shit. But my dad encouraged that, that was fine. Probably the only thing he liked about me. I could hit a target. I could throw a punch. I could, I was good at that shit. I am good at that shit. I was useful.

But fuck, I hated him. And he hated me. But the thing was, I wanted to love him. I wanted him to like me. Hearing all that bullshit, you know, that family’s the only thing you have. And I thought...fuck, how useless am I if the only person that’s supposed to have my back one hundred percent hates my fucking guts?

I loved when he was in prison. We all did, that was the closest to normal we ever felt. Especially when Ma was around. Which wasn’t a lot. But when she’d clean up and stick around for a bit, it was good. She loved us.

_ ‘You haven’t mentioned your mother, before.’ _

I don’t like to.

_ ‘Why’s that?’ _

She’s dead.

_ ‘How old were you, when she died?’ _

Sixteen, probably. She died while I was in juvie. After his boss shot me. I mean, it’s not--we weren’t close. She was an addict, you know? Everyone in our neighborhood was an addict. But it’s hard to be close to someone that really only gives a shit about heroin. 

_ ‘You said she loved you.’ _

She did. I don’t know, with Southside parents, Valasco, you never fucking know. Either you just  _ know _ they hate your fucking guts or there’s something else that makes you wonder. Ian knows. His parents were just as shitty.

_ Ian nods, doesn’t say a word. _

My mom...she was real fucking afraid of my dad. That’s why she would stay away when he was out. She loved us...but you know, not more than herself. Not more than dope. 

_ ‘How did you feel when she died?’ _

Detached. I didn’t really feel fucking anything. Maybe just angry, I don’t know. It happened while I was locked up, y’know? When I came back and she was gone...it wasn’t anything new. Mandy picked me up, Ian came with her. I think that was enough family. There wasn’t even a funeral, that I know of. To the furnace. Who knows what happened to the ashes?

What the fuck were we talking about again?

_ ‘Possessiveness.’ _

Yeah, right. Y’know, I remember when I was young...like real young, still kinda hopeful that things might get better. Six years old? I found a kitten, like the scrawniest, ugliest fucking cat in existence, on the way home from school. And I picked it up and told Mandy that we were going to raise it. And we brought it home and we tried to hide it from our dad, but he was right fucking there in the living room, we couldn’t really hide an entire cat. He took one look at that thing and next thing I knew he was taking it and squeezing the fucking life out of it. Just throttled the goddamn cat. “Don’t need another mouth to feed,” he said. I think that’s when I decided that I really hated him. He didn’t have to fucking...kill it, you know? Coulda just thrown it out to starve, or whatever. Didn’t have to strangle it right in front of us.

_ ‘That sounds incredibly traumatizing.’ _

Does it? I guess so. If the rest of my childhood had been normal...if my life didn’t go down the way it did, maybe. 

I, uh. I knew I couldn’t have shit that was mine from that point on. I knew I had to keep everything a secret, or else my dad would just fucking smother it. So I didn’t really fucking  _ have  _ anything.

_ ‘So now that you have your own life, you’re protective of it.’ _

No, that’s not it. It’s...shit. Ian’s the first thing I had that was mine. That stayed mine. Even when my dad found out, even...through everything, y’know? Seven years and he’s still...mine. We’ve had nothing, before. The majority of the time we’ve had fucking nothing, but...don’t matter, if he’s still around. So yeah, can you blame me if I’m not gonna stand by while some ballsy asshole hits on him?

_ ‘Can’t say I can.” _

I didn’t even deck him.

_ ‘And have you, before? Used violence in response to the possessiveness you feel?’ _

Yeah.

_ ‘Towards Ian?’ _

No. Jesus Christ, no. Not over jealousy. What kind of asshole do you think I am?

_ ‘Can you give me an example of one of these times in which you used violence?’ _

Yeah, I can do that. After Ian--

_ ‘Tell it to Ian, remember?’ _

Fucking--alright, fine. After  _ your  _ boss split, that was around the time I was in juvie the first time, right? He was gone when I got out. And then when I went in again--

_ ‘Why did you go in again?’ _

I punched a cop so I wouldn’t have to kill his dad. Don’t...don’t fucking get me off track, alright? Point is, I went in again, and I was really fucking sure you were never gonna speak to me again. You didn’t come to visit like the first time. I was in for...what, 6 months? That’s a long fucking time to think through shit, y’know? A long fucking time to not hear from you. At least, I thought--  _ He sighs, shakes his head, swallows down the shakiness in his shoulders. _ I did some growing up that time around. I was just about to turn eighteen when I got out, and I feel like I was tired of acting like you didn’t mean anything, anymore. I...was scared you’d really leave if I just kept acting like you didn’t mean anything. So, the day I got out I came looking for you. Right away, I went home, showered, didn’t even talk to my brothers, just came to find you. I needed...I needed to make sure you hadn’t actually written me off. Because it really fucking felt like it. I was too afraid to ask Mandy about you; that would have given it away, right? Acting like I cared? I guess she knew we were friends by then.

_ He laughs, humorlessly.  _ I wonder what people said, about us? Maybe it made sense. Fuck--who am I kidding, it made no fucking sense. I guess we worked together. That’s what--that’s what I told people, the one’s that were dumb enough to ask. We worked together. That’s what I said to your brother, after you left, when he came asking if I knew where you were, I said, “You think I give a shit because I worked with him?” I fucking knew he knew. I did. Who were we kidding? I’m surprised the whole fucking neighborhood didn’t know. People don’t just fucking...spend every spare fucking second together just because they work at the same place, do they? That must have raised some questions. 

_ ‘Did you not go to school together?’ _

Yeah, we did. I’m two years older, though. But, like, two years behind him when I dropped out. What can you do? 

_ ‘Why would it have been so strange for you to be friends?’ _

Valasco, I don’t know if you’ve picked it up in the minute that you’ve known me, but I’m not exactly what you’d call a kindred fucking spirit to mass amounts of people. Born trash, raised trash. Gallagher, though? Too good for the ghetto, everyone fucking knew it. Him and his fucking brother. He cared a lot more than other people. About everything. School, and shit. Suddenly best fucking friends with  _ me _ ? Don’t add up.  _ I  _ didn’t even fucking understand it.

_ ‘Ian was your sister’s boyfriend, though, no?’ _

No, that was long over by the time I got out the second time. Mandy was fucking Lip by then, right?

_ ‘I don’t fucking know, the whole thing was fucked up,’ Ian says. _

Yeah, it was. She was definitely living at your house around then...alright, off-subject, Mandy doesn’t matter. 

I came back, I came looking for you, found you fucking that kid, beat the shit outta him. I wasn’t really mad about that, though, I didn’t expect you to  _ wait.  _ You coulda done way better than that fairy, though. 

_ ‘Mick.’  _

All I’m saying is, with us, you have to  _ guess  _ who takes it and who gives it. It’s a tossup. But  _ that _ bottom bitch?

_ ‘Mickey, Jesus Christ.’ _

What? This is therapy, I’m...expressing my feelings.

Anyway, I was just fucking ecstatic that you didn’t tell me to fuck off. You were  _ smiling  _ at me again. And I made this little promise to myself that it wouldn’t be the same as before. Well, it would be kind of the same, because I was too fucking...I didn’t want a relationship. That seemed too final, or normal or some shit. 

But then it set in that you were fucking other guys, y’know? And I was thinking...I’m really not enough. And of fucking  _ course  _ I wasn’t enough, I didn’t even have the balls to kiss you. I was too afraid it would change everything. I mean I was right, it did, but...I should’ve done it sooner, I know. 

I guess when I realized you were fucking other people, it gave me the go ahead to try it, too. We were both fucking hypocrites, man, but I think I was worse, because I was fucking girls. You know that. I couldn’t fuck another guy, I couldn’t...with girls, I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t even fucking...like it. I mean it was sex, but it wasn’t something I actually wanted to do. I didn’t go looking for it. I just did it to kind of throw it out into the universe that maybe I didn’t care that you were with other people. But I guess to do that I should’ve fucked other  _ guys _ . Did it hurt more? That I was fucking girls? I don’t know. 

Seeing you with that ancient asshole, though. The way he fucking looked at you, I wanted to smash heads. He was like seventy fucking years old, looking at a sixteen year old like you were a bowl of fucking rice pudding. And I was so fucking  _ done  _ acting like I didn’t care. That was the point, when I stopped fucking other people. It seemed pointless, then, because you knew. You don’t just go fucking berserk on a guy who’s fucking the same person you’re fucking and then go right back to pretending not to care. Doesn’t work like that, right? That’s why I kissed you, because I’d already fucking given myself up, and I knew if I didn’t then you’d just go back to him. I couldn’t buy you shit, or bring you to fancy fucking faggy bars, or fuck you in five star hotels. I was dirt fucking poor, man, but you still wanted me. So I figured I had some edge on that old pervert, because I’d treated you like shit most of the time up until then and you  _ still  _ wanted me. Wanted more than that, wanted to fucking spend time with me, be my fucking friend. You got me a goddamn job, you kept my sister away from assholes. So I wanted to be better. Or something like that. And after I beat the shit out of him, and you ran with me instead of staying with him, I was so fucking happy. You chose me again, man, just like when Kash shot me, except this time  _ I  _ was the jealous bitch, y’know? And you still chose me. I wanted us to be the only two goddamn people left on the planet so maybe the world would just give up trying to make shit hard for us. I just wanted us to be as...normal as we could be. In what ways we could.

* * *

 

“So, Mickey, I believe what I am hearing is that you believe that you are not good enough for Ian,” Valasco comments after a pause.

“ _ That’s  _ the understatement of the year,” Mickey mutters.

“Wh--Mickey, that’s fucking insane,” Ian exclaims. “Seven years and you’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop?”

“The other shoe  _ has  _ dropped, Ian. I say we’re about ten  _ pairs  _ of shoes in by now,” Mickey argues.

“Yeah, and we’re still here. I’m still here. You’re still here.”

“Of course I’m still here, where the fuck would I go? After all this?”

“Exactly, Mick.”

“You’re the one that...left. Over and fucking over,” Mickey responds, voice quiet.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

“Why the fuck are you apologizing? It was always my fucking fault.”

“Mickey, it was  _ never  _ your fault, alright? We just...we just wanted to be normal, like you said, right? It was the people around us, the shit that happened to us. If it were up to us,” Ian laughs with glistening eyes, “we’d have just gotten some shitty apartment and gotten shitty jobs and spent every night watching shitty action movies with shitty takeout. I would have stayed, because of you. It was never fucking you. I love you. Sometimes I just needed to get away from all the bullshit. Sometimes we just needed time apart.”

Mickey blinks at him, the tightness behind his eyes threatening to turn to tears. 

“You hear me?” Ian asks. “I’m not going to leave, again. We’re through it. We’re on the other side. We’re normal now, y’know? House and day jobs. I mean fuck, I spent the walk over here thinking about what I’m going to make for  _ dinner _ . We were just fucking grocery shopping together. We’re boring, now,” Ian says, and Mickey smiles in spite of himself. “We’re on the other side.”

“I hate…” Mickey trails off, eyes falling to the floor blankly. “I hate waiting for something bad to happen. I just want to be fucking happy and that’s it.”

“Me too. But if something bad happens...Mick, I’m not going anywhere. You’re fucking stuck with me, now. You’re all I want, I’m done denying that.” Ian smiles softly, tilts his head to catch Mickey’s eye. “You and me, Mick.”

“You and me,” Mickey repeats with a shaky smile. He’s only vaguely aware of Valasco’s presence. Somehow, the man just seems to melt into the background, nonthreatening. 

“Against the world,” Ian finishes.

“Yeah.”

When they leave the office, Mickey pulls a startled Ian into the first alley they pass to tug him down into a kiss.

"What was that for?" Ian asks with a dazed voice when they pull apart.

"Just really fucking glad you're real," Mickey answers in a weak voice. 

The Mexico sun has nothing on Ian's smile.

**Author's Note:**

> i live for comments. also if any of the spanish is wrong just tell me i'm hanging on google translate and a vague knowledge of italian grammar idk shit


End file.
